


Just Kids

by BlindWolfGrasshopper



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon), 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Bisexuality, Childhood Memories, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Past Abuse, Prostitution, Slow Burn, what even is plot?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:41:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23987539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindWolfGrasshopper/pseuds/BlindWolfGrasshopper
Summary: What if they met when they were kids?Driven by fond childhood memories, Adrian finds himself wandering Mediterranean islands in search of a boy who might only be a ghost. Memories and reality collide and intertwine as Adrian seeks answers to questions burning so deep inside he doesn't even know he's asking them.
Relationships: Alucard | Adrian Tepes | Arikado Genya/Hector
Comments: 40
Kudos: 40





	1. Adrian: On Chasing Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Tags may be added as they're needed!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully y'all are in the mood for a meandering, basically plotless story filled with lots of pining and stupid boys being in stupid love :)
> 
> Takes place roughly 1-2 years before the events of S1 would happen. This strictly references the Netflix show--I'm unfamiliar with the games.

Cyprus looks so small from the boat that Adrian wonders how his father had ever managed to hide their castle on it for over a week. It’s just a dot of green and brown in the bright blue water. He can make out the port from this distance, and the speckled stone houses and pathways of the village it sustains. His father had brought him to this very same village when he was a boy. He’d gotten the sense, while visiting, that time passed slower on the island. The memories are all sticky-sweet, soaked in sunshine and smiles and a feeling so strong it seems to stretch straight from his memories into his chest and squeeze his very core.

He has this wild wish that Cyprus is crystallized, perfectly preserved for his return. There had been a boy on the island, one with olive skin and eyes the color of the ocean—one of Adrian’s few childhood friends. He hasn’t seen or spoken with the boy since then, but fond memories of their time climbing trees and stumbling along rocky beaches coaxed him onto a boat and back to the little island.

As crazy as it does seem.

Adrian has reminded himself so many times during the trip here—the boy he remembers doesn’t exist anymore. The island might once have felt suspended in time, but neither he or the boy have been. Hector would be a young man now, and Adrian constantly tells himself there’s a very real possibility Hector won’t remember him. Why would he remember a strange boy who randomly appeared in his life for such a short period so many years ago?

That inky drop of doubt has bled into many of his memories, and Adrian has spent most of the trip to Cyprus oscillating between feeling drugged by happy memories and asking himself why he’s making such an excruciatingly long journey to see someone who probably doesn’t remember him.

But what was the harm in returning? In the worst case, Hector wouldn’t remember him and Adrian would spend a few weeks alone on the beautiful island before returning home.

When the boat docks, he pays the captain the remainder of his sum and leaves with the small pack of belongings he’d brought. Even the port, which should be bustling with life, seems to move at a slower pace than other ports Adrian has been to. Several docked ships sway slightly with the movement of the ocean while men move supplies onto and off of them, and a few children pretend to play while they watch the sailors. But the people all seem to move slower, talk slower, even the children play slower.

He makes his way from the port, into the little city of quaint stone buildings, some with domed roofs and others with terracotta roofs. Cobbled walkways, little round tables out in front of some of the buildings where people sit and chat in the sunshine. He spots a tavern his father had dragged him into while he was attempting to get directions—the owner hadn’t been pleased with a child’s presence, but Adrian can clearly recall the somewhat astounded look on the man’s face when he’d seen Adrian’s father. He’d politely given directions just to get them to leave.

Adrian finds a room in an inn on the outskirts of the city, where he’ll easily be able to make his way toward Hector’s family home the next morning. He can see the mountain his father had used to obscure their castle, and he has vague memories of Hector’s little stone home in the hills of the countryside between the village and the mountain.

The inn is run by a curious old woman, Eleni, who demands Adrian pay full price for his room upfront. He wonders if she’s used to foreigners not paying—he’s happy to front the money and thanks her kindly for the board, at which point she seems to warm to him.

“Your Greek is very good,” Eleni says.

“Thank you. I haven’t spoken it in years, so I’m happy to hear that.”

She eyes him with a measured amount of suspicion this time, “What brings a young man like yourself here? Are you a merchant?”

“I’m here to find an old friend,” he says. “It’s been some time, but he used to live in the countryside east of here.”

She mutters something under her breath, “Cyprus is small. What’s his name? My sister and I may know him.”

“The Zavos family?”

The woman’s mouth twists. She shakes her head, then turns to a door behind the counter and throws it open. A sinfully good scent wafts out—inside, Adrian can see counters of partially prepared food.

“Maria! We have a guest looking for the Zavos family!”

A voice calls back: “Zavos? Why?”

Either the woman’s sister is nearly deaf or if they always yell at one another. A slightly older woman emerges from the kitchen—she matches her sister with curly peppered hair and wide-set, dark eyes. She looks Adrian over.

“Why do you want the Zavos family?”

“I was here some years ago and befriended their son, Hector. I’d hoped to meet with him again while I’m here.”

“You are too late, young man. The Zavos family burned up in a fire years ago.”

A breath leaves Adrian’s body and seems to take his soul with it. All this way, to find tragedy? He’d spent the whole trip reminding himself that things couldn’t possibly be the same, that the Hector he remembered wouldn’t be preserved by time—and now, in some twist of fate, the silver-haired boy really would be preserved, only in Adrian’s memory.

A breeze might pass right through him. He grasps for some shred of logic that might make the feeling go away, he reminds himself over and over that it wasn’t even two weeks, that it was years ago, that he was just a child, but nothing stifles the feeling that he’s very suddenly lost something profound.

His father had spoken to him of death when he was a boy. _Humans are fragile,_ he’d said, as if explaining why death happened might serve as some sort of coping mechanism. As if it would make the pointless death of a boy, a friend, any easier to process.

The sisters are arguing, saying something Adrian can’t hear. But then, Eleni looks at him, “I think their son lived.”

Maria swats her, “That fire was terrible, and they found remains.” She gives Adrian an apologetic look.

“I’m telling you, my friend saw the boy at the port the next morning. She swears it. He ran. Left Cyprus.” Her mouth twists to a sour frown, “I think he did it. He burned the place down with his parents inside then ran away before anyone could find out.”

When Adrian pictures the boy, it’s always atop a rocky cliff overlooking the ocean, his silver hair whipped into a mess from the wind and a supremely peaceful expression on his face. That was when he was most himself—when they were lost in the woods or on a beach, just the two of them, isolated from everyone and lost in their own world.

Adrian can’t, for the life of him, imagine that boy being incited to violence. He has a clear memory of Hector sobbing over a dead baby bird they’d found that had fallen from its nest. That boy didn’t have a streak of cruelty anywhere in his being.

Eleni nods, “She says she saw him leave on a boat headed west. I think he lived, but I doubt you’d want to track him down. No offense, but your friend was a little strange.”

Maria’s lips narrow as she looks between the two of them. Adrian doesn’t know how to respond. Finally, she swats her sister’s arm again, “What room is our guest in? I’ll show him to it. You go finish the bread.”

At the door to his room, Maria leans a shoulder against the frame while Adrian shrugs his bag from his shoulder. It’s a small room with one large, brightly lit window that gives a wide view of the city and waterline.

“I remember your friend,” she says. “He was a quiet boy. Strange, like Eli said. Seemed to get along with the stray dogs and cats more than he ever got along with other kids.”

“Oh,” is all Adrian can think to say. It’s true though, he can’t recall ever seeing Hector speak with another child the few times they were around other people.

She purses her lips, “It’s not my business to speak of, but if what my sister claims is true… well, frankly, I hope it is. So what if he killed them? They killed him several times over.”

Adrian feels his head fall to the side. “What?”

“You must have been too young to notice when you knew him? They were not kind to that child. I suspect it was worse than any of us knew. It always is.”

The gears of his mind turn. He can remember, one single time, seeing the outside of the little house Hector lived in. He remembers thinking the windows seemed black, like the interior might be a void that sucks people in with no hope of returning. He was afraid for Hector, only that one time, but he couldn’t put words together to explain why.

He lets himself sit on the edge of the bed. “I must have been.”

Maria gives a slow nod. “What will you do, now that you know he isn’t here?”

Which is, he thinks, the ultimate question. All this way, and he can’t even be sure if he’s found a ghost or a bitter memory.

He looks out the window and watches a few small ships sail by in the harbor. “I’d like to go to the house, as strange as that sounds. Just to… just…” He realizes he doesn’t have much of a reason why, at least, no reason that makes sense.

“It’s too far for you to make it there before nightfall, but I’ll point you in the right direction. Find me in the kitchen before you go tomorrow morning, and I’ll show you where to go.”

“Thank you,” he means it, sincerely.

She nods again. “And after that… if you wanted to sail west, there are three major ports just west of here. Any ship that leaves has to stop at one of them. We even have some of the same sailors that have been going between them for years. You might be able to get some information from someone.”

Adrian feels, strangely, that he can confide in this woman. “Is it utterly bizarre if I still want to track him down?”

Maria shrugs, “You’re already here; may as well keep going.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! [Find me on Tumblr for updates and Castlevania musings!](https://blindwolfgrasshopper.tumblr.com/)


	2. Interlude: Not Quite Human

The castle appeared late one night, far on the horizon and mostly obscured by a mountain. Hector wouldn’t have noticed it if he hadn’t sneaked onto the roof to avoid his father just before sundown. He’d grown comfortable and decided to stay up there for the evening, long past the time the house went dark and his parents were asleep—it was a spring night, with clear skies and a nearly full moon and so many stars he sometimes felt pleasantly lost in them.

He might not have noticed the sole visible spire of the castle if it weren’t for a bat that zipped past his face and drew his attention down from the stars to the skyline near the mountains. At first, he thought his eyes might be tricking him. He’d watched that exact skyline so many times in his young life that he knew it by heart, and if something had been under construction in that direction he surely would have noticed before it was fully made. But no—there, peeking out from the mountain, a pointed spire drilled up into the skyline. If he had dreams anymore, he would have thought he was dreaming. But he barely remembered what dreaming was like, so he thought maybe he was so tired he was seeing things.

He rubbed his eyes and blinked and squinted.

The spire was still there.

And then came the blast of wind—on an otherwise perfectly calm evening, a blast strong enough to blow his hair back and make him shield his eyes from the dust, strong enough to make the shutters of the house knock against the stone sides. The blast was gone just as soon as it had arrived, and Hector peeked out from behind his arm. His first instinct was to peer over the edge of the roof. He became still, as quiet as possible. Listening, for any sign the wind had awoken his parents.

When nothing came, he looked back out to the mystery spire. Once, in the village not far from the house, he’d overheard a traveling storyteller weaving a tale of a magical warrior who could appear anywhere he wanted. Could castles do the same thing, he wondered? Who would ever want their castle to move? Why would they want it to move?

Looking out at the moonlit thing, he was overcome with an itch for adventure. His eyes had begun to feel heavy before he noticed the spire, but that feeling was nowhere to be found now because the mountains weren’t that terribly far away and there was a great mystery to be explored.

As quietly as possible, he slid from the roof and dropped to the ground. He didn’t look back at the house before he started for the spire.

The moon had moved further across the sky by the time he neared the spire, and the terrain made the itch move deeper, hidden somewhere inside him beneath a layer of caution. Whole trees were upended and brushes were flattened. But it wasn’t the visuals that filled Hector with apprehension—it was the silence. The nights in this area were filled with all sorts of noise if you knew what to listen for—crickets and toads and rodents, canines like foxes and dogs. But as he drew closer to the spire, any signs of the usual forest critters were harder to find.

Life had taught him when to be afraid, and it had also taught him how to be afraid. Running away wasn’t always the right thing, not when you were unsure of what you were facing. He tried to be like the mutts he’d befriended in the village—approach with caution, ears up, eyes sharp, hackles raised.

The spire happened to be attached to the most magnificent building he’d ever seen. It looked like bits and pieces had been added at random. The base was huge, but it got wider as it went upward, then thinner, with great spires sticking off in random directions. He stood at the base, looking up, mouth agape. The sheer height of the thing stole the breath from his body.

He’d heard stories of castles, seen drawings of them in books, but now that one was before him it seemed almost too big to fathom. How many people lived in it? It looked like it could house a hundred villages. He placed a hand against the dark stone exterior just to be sure it was real.

The air was still so quiet and he knew he needed to keep his hackles up, but the itch of wonder had resurfaced so strongly he was swept away by it. The stretches of the castle were lit by the white moonlight, the stone was rough and cool beneath his fingers in spite of the warm spring night. He walked the length of one side, hand trailing over the stone, looking up at the spires that seemed to touch the stars.

But as he neared the front corner, a voice snapped his attention back to the earth.

“Be wise about how far you wander. Don’t go past the river.”

Hector’s entire body tensed so much he stopped moving. It was a man’s voice, slow but commanding. He spoke Greek with a hint of an accent Hector didn’t know. Cyprus saw travelers from all parts—he was used to hearing accents and had learned to identify many of them from his time spent wandering the village port. But this one was very strange. It didn’t help that the man’s Greek was very good—his accent was very nearly undetectable.

“And don’t go _into_ the river. I shouldn’t have to say that…”

Another voice responded, this one small and high pitched, in a language Hector didn’t know.

“Speak correctly, you need the practice,” the deep voice said.

“When will we get to go meet people?” The small voice replied in broken Greek, with a much thicker accent.

“Tomorrow night. It’s too late now. But, that means you must sleep in the morning so you’re ready for tomorrow.”

Hector crept toward the voices, holding his breath, and peered around the corner of the castle. The two stood on the windblown grass before great stone steps—an unimaginably tall man in a dark cloak and a small boy silhouetted against the cloak like a streak of white. The man _looked_ like the sort of person who would need a castle this tall. He reached a pale hand down to the boy’s head and mussed his hair.

“I have work to do before the sun comes up.”

“Can I stay out?”

“Not now, Adrian.” The man turned and began walking up the steps. “Your mother will stake me if I allow you to wander around out here before I’m sure it’s safe.”

The boy watched after him, and then, as if he’d heard a noise Hector never made, turned his face in Hector’s direction. To be sure, Hector stopped breathing again.

“Adrian, come along.”

The boy’s face turned away once more, and he scurried up the stairs after the man. The thud of great doors falling shut echoed in the silence, and Hector finally let out his breath. So a giant man and a small boy—perhaps his son—lived in the great castle. Hector turned and started back the way he came, filled with sudden zeal to return to the house. These two strange people were going to be in the village tomorrow night, and Hector would be there as well. He wanted to get a closer look, maybe see their faces. Nobody from the village would have seen the castle or any of its great spires—the mountains were too far away. The strangers had positioned their magic castle just perfectly to avoid attention.

But then, Hector’s hackles went up again. Not because of anything he saw or heard, but because he could feel eyes watching him. He whipped around and there, just behind him, the small streak of white stood grinning.

“Hello,” the boy said. He was close enough for Hector to finally make out his features—light yellow hair and golden eyes to match. His smile revealed two strangely elongated teeth, like a dog or a cat. There was something more as well, something Hector couldn’t quite find the words for. A feeling, something in the aura of the boy, that set Hector somewhat at ease. The boy wasn’t human.

“What are you?” he asked.

The boy’s glowing smile faltered for just a moment. “I’m like you,” he said.

“No, you’re not.”

This time the smile disappeared and Hector realized the boy was bothered by what he’d said. He wondered why anyone would be bothered by not being human. Dogs and cats and birds certainly weren’t bothered by it. The boy shouldn’t be either.

“I’m not that different from you,” the boy said. “My name is Adrian.”

With his glowing grin and light complexion, he reminds Hector of the moon. A happy little moon with fangs.

“You’re shy. What’s your name?” The boy asked.

“Hector,” he said, reasonably assured he could trust the boy.

“Where do you live? You can’t live all the way out here.”

Hector pointed vaguely in the direction of his house, “I saw the castle appear and came to see. Does it belong to that tall man?”

“Yes, it’s our home. He’s my father.”

Adrian was slightly shorter than Hector. He wondered if the boy would grow to be as tall as his father.

“Where are you from?”

“Wallachia,” Adrian grinned again. “We’re visiting.”

Hector doesn’t recognize the place. Some of the books around the house contained old maps—he would dig through them later to see if he could find Wallachia. What a strange place it must be with boys who weren’t human and men so tall they would hit their heads on doors.

“You brought your castle for a visit?”

“Of course. How else were we supposed to get here?”

“By boat, like everyone else?”

Adrian blinked at him. Maybe people from Wallachia didn’t know what boats were.

“Adrian!” The man’s voice boomed out of a far window and the boy flinched. A sense of dread washed over Hector. The man sounded upset.

“I have to go,” Adrian grinned sheepishly, like his father yelling for him was only a joke. And then he was gone, waving back to Hector as he sprinted to return to the castle before his father got angry again. Hector might have been disappointed, but he knew the boy and the man would be in the village the very next night.

Every time the boy had smiled, Hector hadn’t been able to look away from the pointed teeth in his mouth. He wanted to know what they were, _why_ they were. He looked up at the towering castle Adrian had called home.

_I’m not that different from you._

Somehow, he strongly doubted the boy’s words were true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos and comments!!! <3


	3. Adrian: The House

The plot where the house once stood is so grown over with weeds Adrian might have missed it if it weren’t for the few crumbled remains of what was once the exterior wall peeking up through the grass. Adrian walks the perimeter and stops before a break in the stone that must have once been the doorway. Years ago, he’d stood in this same spot and watched with a looming sense of dread as the house swallowed Hector into its darkness.

He gets that same feeling now, looking at the dead plot full of weeds in the sunshine. He didn’t understand it then, and now… now he understands it so profoundly it makes his chest ache. He keeps combing back through his memories of Hector, but everything other than that one moment in front of the house is sun-bleached and beautiful. He feels like a stupid kid, a stupid adult, for never having been able to see what must have been sitting right before him the entire time.

He sits on the ground before the doorway, legs crossed, and lets himself wallow in the awful sense of regret. He should have known, he should have been able to see. And more than anything, he should have done something about it. He’s not sure what, but there had to have been something he could have done.

Staring at the thatch of weeds, Adrian hopes this isn’t his friend’s grave. Not only because he wishes Hector were alive, but also because he hates the thought that his friend may have died in a place where he already suffered so much.

Maria, the kind woman who had given him directions to this place, said she’d be waiting for his return with a bottle of wine and a fresh loaf of bread. She seems, on some level, to understand Adrian’s venture was madness from the start and it hasn’t gotten any less insane with the news of Hector’s fate. He knows when he returns she’ll ask him what his next steps are. He still doesn’t know. Chasing a ghost around the Mediterranean sounds like it would be the craziest thing he’s done yet.

The long grass sways and rustles as the breeze picks up, and Adrian spots something—a dark mark on the remains of the house, just where the outer wall meets the foundation. On his knees, he leans forward and pushes the grass to the side.

They’re alchemical symbols, old and worn, and Adrian is reminded that Hector’s father was an alchemist. He remembers it clearly now because his own father had met with Hector’s—neither had been aware their sons had already been friends for days. They’d met in the village and Adrian’s father had questioned the man about his practice briefly. Hector’s father had been a striking man, paler than Hector but with the same light eyes and silver hair and Adrian remembered wondering if Hector would look like him too when he was old. He’d been fascinated, but hadn’t had much an opportunity to gawk—his father ended the conversation too quickly. Once they were out of earshot Adrian’s father had declared the man a fool and said he wasn’t worth wasting time talking to.

With that in mind, Adrian studies the markings near the entryway. He’s not terribly familiar with alchemy, but the markings seem coherent to him—something with a soul and binding. He finds them on either side of the doorway. It looks, he thinks, like an alchemical curse of sorts, binding souls to the house that once was.

Souls of the living don’t bind—only the dead. With the crumbled remains of the exterior still remaining, the curse still stands. Meaning, anyone who died within the walls after the marks were made was still trapped there, suspended indefinitely in their journey to the afterlife in a patch of overgrown weeds.

It’s not a strong curse. Adrian could undo it by simply wiping the characters from the stone. He’s not even entirely sure the curse is effective—alchemy can be a finicky practice from what he understands, and according to his father there wasn’t a skilled alchemist in Hector’s household.

But the little marks fill Adrian with a nauseating mix of dread and hope. Dread because of the possibility the marks were made by Hector’s father. If he really was as cruel as Maria seemed to believe, would he have locked their souls in the house before burning his entire family alive?

But then, who would do that to themselves?

And that’s the foolhardy, twisted glimmer of hope Adrian can’t deny himself. Hector had spoken of reading his father’s books. And he’d had remarkable skills of his own—talents Adrian didn’t fully understand until years later. Perhaps Hector understood his father’s work better than his father did.

He still can’t fathom the boy who cried over a dead bird setting fire to his own house with his parents inside and deliberately binding their souls to the foundations just to torment them. But if they had been so cruel to him, maybe… maybe they’d pushed that boy to the point that he finally snapped.

It’s a terrible thought, and Adrian feels awful for how much he hopes it’s true.

**

Maria pours Adrian a glass of pale gold liquid with a generosity that he appreciates. The sun will set soon over the ocean, and from the small table positioned just outside her inn, they will have the perfect view. The bread loaf she promised him is still slightly warm but cool enough to tear into. She’s placed it on a small wooden plank at the center of the table, with a plate of yellow oil for dipping and a dish of olives. Adrian is inclined to think he could get very comfortable here.

“What did you find?” she asks, pouring herself a glass just as generous.

“Ghosts,” Adrian muses. It probably sounds cryptic to the woman, though it’s more true than she might imagine.

“I am sorry you’ve come all this way for such news.”

“I don’t know what to believe,” Adrian says. “Your sister really seems to think he escaped.”

“Either way, the boy’s fate wasn’t easy.”

“No,” Adrian squints out to the ocean, wondering if Hector really had left, maybe even on one of the ships in the dock right now. “There were remains?”

The woman tears off a sizable chunk of bread, giving Adrian an apologetic look from the corner of her eye, “Three bodies—two adults and a child. They said the fire was fast and very hot. All the stuff the boy’s father kept for his work made it worse. But… I don’t think three bodies is necessarily bad news.”

It feels like terrible news. “It’s not?”

She waves the chunk of bread at him, “I’m telling you, those people were fucking crazy.”

“You think they may have had a second child in the house?”

“Or the body of one.” She shrugs and drags the bread through the oil. “His father always needed strange things for his… magic, or whatever it was he thought he was doing.”

The sun is just starting to set, and the sky is suddenly painted brilliant shades of orange and blue. Adrian wishes he could appreciate it more, but his heart is still heavy with everything he has learned. He takes a long drink of wine.

“I think I have to go search for him.”

Maria hums. “’Have to’ is a strong phrase.”

It’s something Adrian can’t explain to her, not without detailing the cursed markings on the remains of the house. If Hector did die there, Adrian wants his soul to finally rest. If he didn’t, Adrian doesn’t want to defy whatever little justice he chose to enact.

“It is, but those are the right words,” Adrian says. “Nobody else has cared enough to find out, so I will.”

“Good,” she says, refilling her glass. “Now, the next question is: Are you trying to confirm that he’s alive, or just that he’s not dead?”

Adrian drags his fingertips around the glass. It’s a good question, a maddeningly good question. He can’t answer it yet, so instead he reaches for the bottle of wine in hopes he might find some clarity in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Quick chapter, I promise a longer one soon!


	4. Adrian: Solemn, Sultry Creatures

There are three ports near west Cyprus, and the closest is on the eastern side of Rhodes. So, Adrian decides his search will start there. He says goodbye to Maria, who equips him with a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine that she makes him swear to only drink when he finds what happened to Hector. None of the captains at the port were sailing between Rhodes and Cyprus at the time Hector disappeared, but one is leaving for Rhodes soon and says he may have crew members who were around.

Adrian feels like he would love sailing if he were on a one-man boat. The trip between Cyprus and Rhodes is short, but he’s not used to being in close quarters with so many people so it feels unimaginably long. Every interaction begins to remind him that his humanity is something like an ill-fitted suit, a second skin so poorly suited to his form that he’s shocked none of them seem to notice. But the first evening, he sets his discomfort aside and begins to ask among the crew members—were any of them sailing between Cyprus and Rhodes some three or four years ago?

It’s miss after miss, except that every one of them seems in the mood to be entertained by a story. They all want to know why he’s asking, who he’s looking for. Adrian doesn’t feel like he has a great story to regale them with—at least, not one he wants to share. After a few hours, he abandons the project and retreats into the cabin he’d paid the captain an ample sum for. He lets the rock of the ship sweep him away for a few hours of worthless sleep, and when he emerges from his cabin—success.

There’s a deckhand, a woman with short-cropped hair and one arm, who says she’s been working the area for several years. Cyprus, yes, Rhodes, yes. Hector Zavos? No.

But—a young man with silver hair?

Yes.

“I remember him!” she says. “Strange one, for sure. He did his work to pay his way but never spoke to anyone. Nobody ever believes me when I tell this story, but I only remember him because our deck cat broke its neck on the trip and the silver-haired boy…”

Adrian didn’t need to hear anymore. Hector had left the sailor’s ship on Rhodes. He’s going in the right direction.

Hector is alive. And Adrian is going to scour every inch of Rhodes to find him.

**

He stays in the little city next to the port for too many days. The room he finds is comfortable, and he spends most of his time making his way about, asking inn keeps and tavern maids and sailors if they can recall any sign of Hector. It’s dead end after dead end, and Adrian grows frustrated until it occurs to him that Hector probably wouldn’t have spent much time at all in a bustling little port city. The boy he remembers avoided the town at any cost, and Adrian can’t recall ever seeing him speak to another person.

So he leaves the coastal town and heads to the tiny villages that surround it. He spends one day at each—there are rarely enough inhabitants to justify spending any longer asking about Hector. When he’s exhausted his search in a village, he asks where the next closest ones are and carefully adds them to a rough map he’s drawn in a leather-bound notebook to track where he’s been. One village, the next, the next, marking them each with a check as he works his way across the eastern side of the island. Some places he visits barely qualify as a village—they have so few residents he could count them on his fingers.

Rhodes isn’t a large island, so he knows the painstaking process won’t take long. Nonetheless, each failed village is excruciating. A little reminder of the madness of his mission.

He arrives at a larger countryside village, one that must be a trade center due to the size and number of roads leading to it, just before nightfall. It’s his 13th… 15th stop… he’s lost track. Before anything else, he finds the local tavern, flags the man behind the bar, and tries to buy a bottle of wine from him. There’s a bawdy customer at the far end of the bar, speaking far too loudly about a misadventure involving an unfortunate squid that Adrian hopes never ended up on someone’s dinner plate. A few other patrons gather around him, roaring with laughter for reasons Adrian can’t quite grasp.

He’s certain the bartender quotes him a price far too high for the wine, but he hardly cares—he just wants to get to a private room, have a glass, tick this village off his map, and decompress for the evening before he begins his search in the morning.

A young woman slides into the seat next to Adrian, her back to the bar and her ankles crossed elegantly. She wears a deep maroon dress that sits off the edge of her shoulders, leaving the elegant curve of her clavicle exposed. Her dark hair is pulled back in a loose braid that hangs over one shoulder. She’s very pretty. It’s not difficult to guess her intent—a few attractive young women are meandering the bar, flirting with male patrons.

“We don’t get such pretty strangers often,” she says.

“Just passing through,” Adrian says. And then adds, because he may as well start getting the word out: “I’m searching for someone.”

“Is that so?” Her full lips part in a pretty smile, which is far more distracting than Adrian wishes it were, “You know, I might be one of the best people in town you could ask.”

“An old friend, from Cyprus. He came to Rhodes some years ago and I suspect he may have passed through one of the villages around here. His name is Hector Zavos?”

The woman leans an elbow on the table, a little smirk written on her face, “Like I said, we don’t get pretty strangers around here often. People tend to take notice. Your friend has silver hair?”

The bartender returns and sets the bottle on the counter, then stands for payment. Adrian is so stunned he can’t move.

“You met him?”

She chuckles and turns to the bartender, “He’ll take a second bottle.”

The bartender looks mildly irritated as he dips away to find another bottle. The woman winks at Adrian, “I’m a good businesswoman, I never give information away for free. The second bottle is mine.”

He’ll buy her a wine cellar if she can give him any help. “When did he come through here? How long ago?”

“You misunderstand me, pretty. Hector showed up years ago, he lives somewhere around here. Swings through town every few weeks for supplies.” She holds out a hand, “My name is Ada.”

“My name is Adrian Ţepeş, it’s good to meet you. I apologize for my—I wasn’t expecting to have much luck.”

“I don’t know exactly where he lives, but I know someone who probably does.”

“Do I need to pay you another bottle of wine for that?”

Her smile disappears, “You’re terrible at this. You never offer to pay unless you’re certain it’s expected, and then you try to negotiate.” She raps her knuckles on the wooden counter, “Now, dear Adrian, pay the man for my two bottles of wine and let’s go. I’ll take you to get the information you’re looking for.”

Adrian pays the bartender and Ada snatches the bottles from the counter before he can offer to carry them. Outside, the sun has fallen more quickly than he expected and the stars are already out. There are a few people out on the streets, mostly men moving from one tavern to the next. Ada holds a bottle in either hand and from behind they frame the sway of her hips perfectly.

She gives him a coy glance over her shoulder, “So, Adrian, where are you from?”

“Far north, from the mainland,” he joins her side.

She quirks an eyebrow, “You’ve come that far to find _Hector?_ No offense, but I’m shocked enough he even has a friend. I don’t think anyone around here even knew his surname is Zavos.”

“I take it he’s not well connected?”

“He’s always polite, nobody has any issues with him. He’s just… quiet. I usually know everything that happens in this town, but sometimes he’ll come and go without me finding out until a week later. He always leaves town heading east,” she motions with a wine bottle, “so he must live somewhere out there by himself.”

They round a corner to a mid-sized building with drapes drawn over all the windows and a bright light streaming from the front, where a woman in a gravity-defying bustier is holding the door for a man to exit.

“I’m sure you’re wondering but don’t want to ask: No, Hector isn’t one of our customers. In fact, he’s never been to our establishment. If I can be frank, I doubt your friend would need to pay.”

The interior is clean and shockingly quiet. A few women are lounging on red upholstered sofas in the main room, chatting in low voices. Ada leads him back through the house, up a staircase and down a hallway to an open door. It’s a dimly lit bedroom decorated with patterned scarves draped from the ceiling. A young woman with sandy blond hair and freckles sits on a velvet stool before a vanity, carefully applying a pink hue to her lips. She turns to them and eyes Adrian.

“Why is he here?”

“Evie, meet Adrian.”

She looks at him with raised eyebrows, “And?”

“Adrian looking for an old friend who came here from Cyprus, by the name of Hector.”

Evie is suddenly pink. Her eyes narrow to slits, “I can’t help you with that, Ada.”

Ada seats herself on the edge of the ornately blanketed bed, smoothing her skirt over her legs, “No, you’re not supposed to be able to help us with this. But you can, because you’ve been breaking our rules and seeing him.”

Evie turns from pink to red. She stands and brushes past both of them to pull the door closed. “I’m not seeing him, I saw him. It’s been nearly half a year since the last time.”

At least Hector hasn’t been entirely isolated…

“Can you tell me where he lives?” Adrian asks. “Please?”

Evie crosses her arms and purses her lips. “I’ve never been there. I suspect Hector hasn’t had many visitors. Maybe none. He wouldn’t even invite me.”

“It’s somewhere east,” Ada says.

Evie glares at her again. Adrian has a sneaking suspicion that if he weren’t in the room Evie might have slapped her by now. “Southeast a bit, less than an hour’s walk away. He’s talked about the sunrise over the ocean a few times, so I suspect he’s closer to the coast.”

“Thank you,” Adrian says.

“I don’t know that Hector wants to be bothered with visitors,” Evie says. “I don’t know that he wants to be bothered with people.”

“It sounds like he hasn’t changed much.”

And suddenly, her hardened expression melts. She looks so young it hurts. “You knew him before he came here?”

“We were childhood friends.”

Her chest sinks with a small breath and she leans her back against the door. “Was he always so… untouchable?”

Adrian remembers climbing rocky cliff sides and watching the night sky trying while Hector pointed out the constellations Adrian hadn’t memorized yet. Hector had never seemed untouchable to him—quite the opposite, Adrian recalls feeling like he’d exchanged a bit of his soul for a bit of Hector’s. But maybe that was the precise problem, the reason he’d missed so many things he was only now learning about. All he’d glimpsed in that time was a bit.

“I think so,” he says.

Evie looks away from both of them, to the floor, out the window.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by that.”

**

“Between you and I,” Ada says, leading Adrian through the house to her own room, “I think Hector broke her heart. She’s a good girl, I don’t think she deserved it. But that’s what happens when you let yourself fall for men.”

Ada has offered him a spare room to stay in for the evening but insisted they swing by her room first. She didn’t bother telling him why they’re going to her room, and when he asked she just looked amused.

He’s still surprised by how quiet the house is. There was a pair fucking somewhere on the other side; he could hear them for a short while but it ended pathetically fast so he thinks an evening in the house won’t be such a problem. He’s vaguely curious if such short sessions are normal for them, but he’s not about to ask Ada.

“I take it you have other preferences?” he asks.

“Me?” A sly smile ripples over her lips, “I’m indiscriminate, but I don’t let myself get stupid for anyone. Especially not people prone to being emotionally unavailable. You’re just asking for trouble at that point.”

Ada’s room is neat, with a crisp white bed that stands on heavy wooden posts and a plush sofa near the window. There’s a dark wooden screen to the far corner—she disappears behind it and soon Adrian can hear the rustle of skirts. Her bare arms, long and slender, are briefly exposed over the top as she drapes the dress over it. He turns his back to the scene.

“How long have you been here?” he asks, eying the sole wall hanging, an intricately patterned piece with ornate birds perched on the scrolling branches of a tree. It’s not something her wages could buy. A family heirloom? A gift from an infatuated customer?

“In this house, or on Rhodes?”

“Both.”

“I came to Rhodes from the east when I was a girl. This house… three or four years now.”

Her soft footsteps tell him she’s barefooted when she creeps up behind him. He keeps his eyes locked on the tapestry, hyper-aware of her presence just behind him.

She shoves his shoulder, “You’re so polite I’m starting to wonder if something is wrong with you.”

When she steps around him he can see her hair is loose, hanging in long waves around her shoulders. She’s dressed in a pair of slim-fitted pants with an oversized blouse tucked into the waistband. The bishop sleeves hang to her fingertips until she pushes them up over her elbows. He must be giving her a peculiar look, because she says, “You all get comfortable clothes. Forgive me, I don’t enjoy being laced into a dress all day long.”

Adrian can’t take his eyes off her as she grabs one of the bottles of wine and starts through the door, “Are you coming, or have you decided to stay in my room tonight?”

He steps after her quickly, brushing his hair back from his face even though there was nothing wrong with it. “Are you planning to share your bottle of wine with me now?”

“You’re in luck, I’ve decided I’m willing to sell half the bottle back to you in exchange for good conversation.”

Charming, charming. The spare room she’s found for him is only a few doors away. It’s basic, with a wooden post bed and a chair tucked into a corner. An old vanity is pushed against one of the walls, but it lacks a chair.

Ada motions to the bed, “It’s clean, I assure you. The girl who had this room left for the mainland four months ago. It hasn’t been used since.”

“Thank you.” He puts his bag on the floor next to the bed. “You’re sure my presence won’t be an issue?”

“Frankly, pretty, I’m more concerned you might find it problematic.”

“I’m not bothered. As I said, I appreciate it.”

She rummages through a drawer of the vanity and produces two wine glasses and a corkscrew, “Used to staying in whorehouses, are you?”

“Hardly.” He decides not to mention that this is, in fact, the first time he’s ever been in one.

Ada pours two neat glasses, then drags the chair across the floor so it’s near the bed. She returns to the vanity and takes the two glasses, brings one to Adrian, and falls into the chair, “So, Adrian, tell me: Who the hell travels from the mainland to track down a reclusive childhood friend?”

Adrian seats himself on the edge of the bed opposite her and takes a drink of the cool, sweet liquid. Their knees nearly touch. “I’ve been wondering that very same thing.”

“So _you_ don’t even know why you’re really here.” She chuckles, bringing the wine glass to her lips. Her eyes are quarter-moons of amusement. “What did you hope to find?”

“I’m just relieved to know he’s alive.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, does it? You must have hoped for something when you decided to come here.”

Narrow streaks of wine cling to the side of his glass when he swirls the liquid. He takes a drawn-out drink to hide his hesitation. “I had hoped to find something that hadn’t changed.”

“You must have known you were doomed, then.”

“I’ve always known that.”

She cracks a laugh, this time taking her own too-long drink. “You know, there are legends of people like you. People with fangs.”

He generally avoids speaking more than he needs to with strangers to deter this very conversation. Most people aren’t direct enough to ask or level an accusation during casual conversation, but at the very least it garners strange looks. Before he was old enough to protect himself, his parents had discouraged excessive interactions with others to keep him safe. He wonders, often, how different things might be had he been able to act more freely around others as he had with Hector.

“I’ve had them since birth,” he says. “Though I’m surprised, you hadn’t struck me as a superstitious type. Surely you don’t believe monster myths like that.”

She hums, tapping the edge of her glass against her lips. He can’t quite tell: Does she find this conversation funny? Does she actually believe what she’s implying?

“There are two versions I’ve heard,” she says. “One is that these fanged people are demons from hell who want to devour humans and the other is that they’re rather solemn, sultry creatures that nibble on people’s necks.”

Adrian can’t hide his laughter.

Her eyes lock on his and she flashes him a smile, “I think I can guess exactly which type you are.”

A little play, a little challenge. He licks his lips and balances his glass on the wooden post at the lower corner of the bed before leaning toward her with his forearms resting on his knees, “What makes you think I couldn’t be both?”

She doesn’t move in the slightest when he leans toward her, but she lets out an amused puff at his question. “You’re not from hell, you’re a polite little boy who turns around when I’m changing behind a screen.”

Saliva pools in Adrian’s mouth. He swallows. “I think I’m fond of you.”

“I know you are.”

“You’re very good at your job.”

“Oh, you have no idea, dear,” with a little smirk, she turns her face and brings the glass to her lips. It’s so perfect, he can’t help himself—he leans forward and braces his hands on either arm of her chair, then presses his mouth to the unprotected, graceful line of her neck. He parts his lips and lets the length of his fangs scrape against her soft skin before nipping at it with just his front teeth.

They’re playing her game, but he thinks maybe she’s enjoying it as well because he feels a shiver roll through her body. She turns her face so that her lips meet his with the lightest pressure.

“You’re not going to sleep with me,” her lips brush against his as she forms the quiet words. “We both know you don’t want to.”

The closeness is right, the banter is right, his cock is comfortably erect and the friction against his pants feels amazing. And somehow, in spite of all that, Ada is right—he doesn’t want to. He slips a hand around her lower back and pulls her from the chair onto his lap, so her knees rest on the bed either side of his hips. He nudges his mouth to her neck and peppers it with kisses again. Maybe if he keeps trying the conflicting signals his body is giving him will work themselves out.

“You’re confused,” she says softly.

He’s very, very confused. A small, unwilling whimper escapes him. She pulls her neck away from his lips, takes his face between her hands, and makes him look up at her. “You need to stop.”

“How can I be this… Right now… And not want?”

The pads of her thumbs gently tease the hair near his temples. “I think you came here—to Rhodes—for something very far removed from sex. This isn’t right for you now.”

She keeps saying all the right things, and it only makes it worse. At another time, in another life, he’s certain they would already be tangled in each other.

“People are strange, Adrian. These things happen.”

“I’m sorry, I really don’t mean to offend you.”

A sad smile passes over her face. “It’s for the best.” She leans over him once more and brings her lips to his for one last kiss, “I think I could have gotten too stupid over you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! I wrote a long chapter!
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed! <3


	5. Interlude: Strange Birds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A teeny flashback to hold you all over until the next chapter!

Adrian had decided mid-morning was his favorite time in the Cypriot forests. The sun made bright slices of light through the dense trees, and the air glowed with a beautiful greenish hue from the leaves. He could get lost in the trees, but he knew he wouldn’t because Hector knew the forest just as well as Adrian knew his father’s castle.

Strange things happened in the forest, things he couldn’t quite explain. The way the air glowed, the music the trees made when the wind blew, the way Hector would sometimes completely disappear without Adrian hearing him leave. Every time Hector went missing, Adrian would grow still and listen for signs of his friend. His hearing was so good it ought not to have been a problem, but more often than not he would have to resort to backtracking, wandering around, shouting for him until he found Hector climbing a tree or watching ducks near a pond.

It made sense to find Hector doing something like that—Hector was so deeply entangled in the forest that Adrian began to think of it less as Hector’s home and more as an extension of him. But once, Adrian found his friend in a puzzling situation that would lurk his mind for years.

He’d backtracked through the forest to find Hector crouched low to the ground with a stick in his hand. He prodded at something—it was only when Adrian drew close enough that he could see it was a very dead bird, so young its fluffy young feathers hadn’t fallen out yet.

Hector kept prodding.

Adrian knelt next to his friend, “I think it’s dead, Hector.”

Hector’s pretty blue eyes were filled with tears when he turned to Adrian, “They left it!” He looked up to the tree above and pointed, “See, the nest is up there! It must have fallen trying to fly and they left it to die down here!”

Adrian had run across dead birds, even dead baby birds, in the forests of Wallachia before. He’d never thought much of it. But Hector looked at Adrian like he needed something profound from him, some sort of explanation for this travesty. Adrian felt like his heart had been cracked open and was oozing all over. He didn’t have a good explanation for Hector. There wasn’t one.

Hector blinked and wiped his eyes with the dirty sleeve of his shirt. “If I show you something do you promise you won’t tell?”

Adrian nodded. He wasn’t sure what Hector might want to show him, but if it made Hector feel better he’d go along with anything and keep any secret.

Hector fished into his pocket and produced two coins. It seemed, Adrian swore, like the whole forest fell silent around them. Hector was quiet, methodical in his work. Adrian knelt at his side, watching Hector, too captivated by the moment to say anything. He could feel the magic—it made his skin prickle as it rolled off Hector in waves. Whatever this was, it was special. Perhaps the most special thing he’d ever seen.

And then, the little bird popped upright. Its beady black eyes glowed blue. It peeped and hopped around on the dirt.

Hector grinned so widely Adrian thought his face might split in two.

“It was dead,” Adrian said.

Hector scooped the little thing up from the ground and held it in his palms. “It was. Now it’s not. I helped it.” The smile disappeared from his face. “Don’t tell anyone.”

Adrian squinted up into the tree branches, trying to locate the nest Hector had pointed out. “They won’t take it back. Not like that.”

“You can have it,” Hector held the little round bird out to Adrian. It peeped. Adrian noticed part of the flesh had been eaten away from its head, leaving a fleck of white skull exposed.

“Um…”

But as the hesitation inched from his mouth, Hector’s expression began to break and Adrian understood—this was important to his friend.

“I don’t think I should take it,” Adrian explained quickly. “It’s about to get very cold in Wallachia. The birds don’t like it, they all leave for warm places like this. It would be happier here.”

Hector blinked and the devastation disappeared. “Oh.” He brought his cupped hands close to his chest and petted the bird’s head with his thumb, “I can keep it with my other ones then.”

Years later, Adrian would realize what Hector’s talents really were. He told his father of the child forgemaster saving critters on Cyprus. His father never believed him.


End file.
